Chapter Text
Age: 22
Lark had always been a light sleeper even before the Forgotten Realms. He’d learned the truth about Santa when he was two years old because his parents were physically incapable of moving quietly enough to avoid him waking up and investigating. It was probably for the best, Henry couldn’t lie for shit, so not having to pretend probably made the holiday easier. His childhood had been full of sneaking around the house at night, trying to figure out what people were doing, and eventually getting caught by either his mother or Henry, the latter of which would respond to his threats of vengeance saying, “I know Lark, in this life or the next.” This pattern lasted until he and Sparrow got a few of their questions answered a bit more thoroughly than expected after overhearing Henry working on the last track of his rap album, at which point he concluded that it was better to let others pursue their nighttime activities in peace.
The trauma had only intensified things. When any and all noises were potential threats, it was best to wake up when they happened, and he’d spent too many nights wondering, if he had just slept a little bit lighter, if he could have saved Walter completely, if it might have been a matter of timing rather than a matter of force. He still doesn’t fully understand how the bounty hunters had gotten that close without waking him.
The trade off for never feeling fully rested and permanent dark circles under his eyes had come in the avoidance of the nightmares that seemed to plague so many of the others upon their return. Sparrow’s night terrors and occasional screaming prevented either of them from getting a full night’s sleep for nearly a year after coming back through the portal, and it was enough to turn Lark off to any of the offers of sleep aids given to him.
So when Lark’s phone lights up, it manages to wake him even before the ringer has a chance to go off. There were only two contacts that were able to get through his do not disturb filter at this time of night, and since Nick doesn’t call him this late anymore, it left only one option.
“Sparrow, what’s happening?”
His brother’s breath comes through the speaker, on the verge of hyperventilation.
He’s immediately in action mode, grabbing his boots from where he’d kicked them under the pullout couch and his sweatshirt from where he threw it over the back. “Sparrow, what is it?” It can’t be D.A.D.D.I.E.S. related, that would have come through on his badge, and acolytes didn’t tend to leave you with enough time to stew in your anxiety.
Finally, through the breathy sobs, Sparrow is able to choke out, “It’s Rebecca.”
Weighing the pros and cons, Lark decides to keep the pajama pants, speed seems of the essence and more important than any tactical disadvantage caused by the flannel.
There’s a hiccup on the other end of the line, followed by a hushed, “Oh god.”
“Sparrow, I need details.”
“She woke up, she said her stomach hurt, and then there was blood, and -” his brother dissolved into muffled sobs.
Lark freezes, halfway through reaching towards his bag of weapons, suddenly realizing this is not a punchable problem.
“Sparrow, where are you?”
“We’re at the hospital, just please get here.”
He pulls up the bus routes on his phone. “Where’s Hero?”
“Mom and Dad are going to the house, we’re just hoping she doesn’t wake up before they get there.”
The thought of sleeping through your distraught parents getting into the car and driving off seems almost incomprehensible, but he trusts Sparrow to know his daughter and her sleep patterns better than he does. His bike seems to be the faster option compared to waiting for the bus especially at this time of night. “Okay, I’m gonna get there as soon as I can. Google Maps says it should be fourteen minutes, but the average speed they base that on is wrong, so I think I can shave some of that time off.”
“It’s okay, just - just stay on the phone.”
Lark grabs his airpods. “I can do that.”
It’s been so long since he’s heard his brother scared. Panic isn’t a luxury they’re often able to afford, but then again, most threats they face don’t keep them waiting.
On top of being able to bike faster than predicted by Google, it’s late enough that the roads and intersections are fairly clear. He watches his ETA on his phone as he rides, seeing it tick down as he pedals.
He can’t help but wonder why Sparrow had asked for him. He could have just as easily gone and taken care of Hero, while Mercedes and Henry could have come to the hospital. When it came to who had the most emotional intelligence in the family, Lark was not afraid to admit he came in dead last. Not dead last, the memory of his old therapist, Kevin, says, You just use a different framework.
At any rate, he’s sure he can’t provide Sparrow with anything his mom or Henry can’t. Meanwhile Sparrow isn’t even saying anything on the phone beyond every few minutes verifying, “You’re still there, right?”
Under different circumstances, he might have teased him, or pointed out that his concerns about his smoking impacting his cardio ability must be unfounded if he’s not winded enough to be heard through the airpod microphone, but instead he just says, “Yeah, I’m still here.”
***
Five-ish months earlier, Lark was just in the beginning stages of a depressive spiral. He hadn’t eaten since their last mission and had been sleeping sprawled on the too small couch because he couldn’t work up the motivation to pull out the mattress. His hair was tangled and he was working on day four in the clothes he was wearing. Past experience indicated that he had at least four or five more days before anyone picked up on it, so when he hears a knocking at his apartment door, he’s surprised. He tries to ignore it, assuming it’s some evangelists who are unaware just how familiar he is with higher powers, and just focus on the video of someone restoring a vintage vacuum that he’s watching on his phone.
A text notification pops up.
If you hear someone picking your lock, don’t shoot. It’s just me.
He sighs and glances around. Sure the blinds are down and he looks rough, but he hasn’t had enough time to generate a worrisome amount of mess. He looks back over to the door that’s now making clicking noises as Sparrow makes his way through the locks, finally cracking it open only to have it catch on his three door chains.
“Goddammit, Lark,” his brother says, and a hand armed with tape and a hair tie appears in the crack.
He pauses the video, and while Sparrow works through this next stage of the door opening process, he uses his fingers to try and comb his hair into something less knotted. “One day I’m gonna get more chains than you have hair ties, what’ll you do then?”
“Then I’ll kick your fucking door down, give me a second.”
After around a minute and a half of struggle, Sparrow finally manages to get the door open.
The pair look at each other for a moment, and Lark swings his legs down to open up the rest of the space on the couch.
“What’s up?” Lark uses his best totally-not-depressed voice.
Sparrow takes one of his hair ties off the door and pulls his hair back into a ponytail. “I have news!”
“Breaking into my apartment level news?”
Sparrow kicks off his shoes, pretending like Lark cares about the state of his floors and comes over to sit on the couch. “You were the first person I wanted to tell.”
His brother sits next to him, and Lark watches as Sparrow contorts himself so he’s sitting cross-legged. The couch isn’t that big, so Sparrow’s knee is jutting into the side of his leg.
“Rebecca’s pregnant.” His brother’s tone is oddly neutral.
“Holy shit, congratulations!” Lark says. It feels like the right thing to say, but Sparrow’s energy is off. He’s just staring at him, watching him react. “Are you excited?”
It’s slight, but Sparrow nods. “Yeah, yeah we are.”
He wants to comment that there must be something in the water. First Nick and Cass, then Jodie and Scam of all things, and now this, but those other two announcements weren’t public knowledge yet.
Sparrow keeps looking at him with an intensity that makes his skin itch, and in a distressing turn of events, he can’t read him, can’t figure out what he’s trying to communicate.
“Were you - were you trying?”
Finally breaking his gaze, Sparrow looks down at his hands in his lap. “No, it’s a surprise.” When he looks back up, his eyes are misty. “Hero I could justify. I don’t know about this.”
He wants to engage in the conversation, comfort his brother in some way, but it’s ringing too many of the same bells as his last conversation with Nick. The complicated ethics of bringing a life into this world, being unable to share your concerns with your partner, having to shoulder that burden alone.
Sparrow reaches into his tote bag and pulls out a bottle of sparkling juice. “Bec got this for when she gave me the news but then realized it didn’t agree with her pregnancy palate, so I figured we could drink it together here.” Going back into his bag a second time, he pulls out some cheap plastic champagne flutes. “And these are because I wanted it to be slightly classier than drinking out of one of your mugs or protein shake cups.” Sparrow tries to pour the drinks, but his hands are shaking just enough to make the process difficult. Lark takes the bottle out of his grip and half fills the two glasses.
He lightly taps the two flutes together, with a less than satisfying plastic clank . “So, when can I expect to have my uncle-hood updated?”
Sparrow takes a sip. “Not sure, we think she’s like five to seven weeks along? Haven’t even gotten into the doctor yet.” Sparrow’s giving him that searching look again. To his discomfort, Lark realizes it has an echo of the expression Sparrow gave him just before he’d unleashed the Doodler, a hesitant moment of distrust, but now it’s so subtle that Lark can’t even be sure that’s what he’s seeing.
“Feels a bit early to be telling people.”
Sparrow shrugs. “I just wanted you to know.”
“Why?”
Sparrow doesn’t answer, just adds, “I’m going to wait a while before I tell the rest of the family and crew, so no spilling.”
Lark wonders what new weirdness is consuming the world to the point that he’s the keeper of everyone’s pregnancy secrets. “Okay, barring Mom trapping me in a corner and asking me point blank if Rebecca is pregnant, I will not tell anyone.”
“Fair enough,” Sparrow reaches over and grabs his phone. “Are you watching vintage restoration videos again?”
Lark doesn’t need to answer, the video and title are still perfectly visible, then before he can stop him, Sparrow has opened up his YouTube video history.
“Are you doing okay?” Sparrow asks, looking over the hours of restoration and carpet cleaning videos.
Quickly reevaluating his previous assumption of how long it would be before someone notices his slipping mental state, Lark answers, “I’m me.”
“Nothing new or exciting?” Sparrow asks, as Lark grabs at his extended arm, trying to retrieve his phone.
The question leaves him baffled. He’s Lark Oak Garcia, he intentionally avoids anything new or exciting outside the bounds of work. New and exciting were just synonyms for distracting and dangerous. New and exciting for Lark topped out at occasionally adding a new knife to his collection, and while Sparrow would be interested, it had been a while.
Sparrow picks up on the poor wording. “I guess, I mean, has anything noteworthy happened recently? Life changes? That sort of thing?”
Giving up on retrieving his phone is probably enough of an answer, but Lark doesn’t say anything. Sparrow came over to share his good news, he wasn’t going to ruin it. He isn’t where Sparrow’s focus should be, that is a resource his brother needs to save for his pregnant wife and children. He wants to draw the conversation back to Sparrow, but he really can’t think of anything to say. He hadn’t prepared to have social interactions today, let alone of this magnitude. He just wants to go back to watching this guy try to fix this ancient carpet sweeper, although it seems he’s having to replace most of the pieces using his 3D printer at this point, too many parts of the original were rusted solid or rotted through. And even if he did want to talk about what happened (and he doesn’t) he can’t, so what’s the point?
Sparrow nudges him. “When was the last time you ate?”
He realizes he’s not super sure what day it is, but upon just seeing the hesitation to answer, Sparrow pulls out his phone. “I’m ordering us a celebratory delivery. What do you want?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Sparrow swings an arm over his shoulder and leans into him, showing him the delivery app website. “Irrelevant, what do you want?”
Despite his minimal participation, Sparrow pulls up the page for their favorite local Mexican place and proceeds to order substantially more food than the two of them can eat in a single sitting. Lark tries not to bristle at the show of affection and care, if Sparrow wants to pretend this is only about celebrating the pregnancy, then he isn’t going to push.
***
The San Dimas ER isn’t as busy as he expects. It would appear most people don’t decide to schedule their medical emergencies for two A.M. on a Tuesday. He easily picks out his brother, hunching over his phone, leg shaking up and down like a jackhammer.
Lark takes the seat next to him and hangs up. Without a word, Sparrow leans into his shoulder, eyes red and puffy.
“Do you wish to talk about it?” Lark asks.
Sparrow shakes his head.
“Do you wish to be distracted from it?”
Sparrow shakes his head again.
“Just wanna feel it,” Sparrow whispers, “Just don’t want to be alone.”
And just like that, Lark understands why he called him.
“Okay.”
He holds his hand out. His brother takes it, gripping tightly.
Not wanting to talk about feelings isn’t the same thing as wanting to be alone. Lark is unsure that Henry, or his mom, or even Sparrow fully realized that. How many times had he been abandoned out of the pretense of just giving him space? Feelings are hard enough without having to be lonely on top of them. How many times had he biked off to Glenn’s apartment when the feelings were too much but everyone in his house was too afraid to even speak to him.
He runs a thumb across the back of Sparrow’s hand. The same feelings that are too big to put into words are often the same ones that are too big to be endured alone.
“Father wouldn’t stop texting me while I was on the phone with you.”
Lark isn’t sure where this is going, so settles on a vaguely non-commital grunt.
“I didn’t read them.”
He does his best to smother the anger that flares up. Can’t Henry understand that Sparrow doesn’t have time for this right now? Of course he can’t, but this isn’t about Henry, he’s here for Sparrow.
“That’s okay,” Lark says, as if his permission to disregard Henry means anything. He takes Sparrow’s phone out of his hand and places it in his own pocket.
They settle into a half-silence, Sparrow quietly crying into the sleeve of Lark’s shirt, and Lark not saying anything in response, no additional pressure, no expectations or advice, just providing space as they both ignore the pinging notification sound coming from Lark’s sweatshirt.
Lark does his best to remind himself that this is helping. Being here is helping. The pain and the fear are ongoing, but that’s understandable. The threat (Lark can’t think of a better term) is also ongoing.
Eventually Sparrow seems to run out of tears and, in their absence, finds himself being buoyed on random concepts and memories. Tossing out half related ideas and anecdotes, neither of them bothering to find connections between them. Sparrow just working to avoid trapping things in his own mind, and Lark just listening.
“I don’t know what it is, but I really hate the fabric pattern they have for these chairs,” Sparrow says, pointing at the offending piece of furniture. “Like, I kind of want to engage this chair in mortal combat.”
Lark looks over to the reception desk. The person on duty is busy talking to someone who was cradling their arm. He pointedly glances back from the desk to Sparrow and raises an eyebrow. Sparrow reaches out with his foot and gives the chair a nudge. “Take that,” he murmurs, “Take that you not-quite-hexagonal monstrosity. You are inferior to your weird blue wave patterned predecessors.” Sparrow stands up. “Could some bounty hunters jump out an attack us? I just need something to do.”
They settle for walking across the waiting room to get ice water from the dispenser, Sparrow repeatedly putting his hair in and taking it out of his ponytail as they make their way over.
“Remember that time Father came home just as Mother was getting ready to take me to urgent care when I got my class ring stuck on my finger?”
Lark nods. Grandmother Autumn had needed to pause teaching him how to knit a hat just to calm Henry down.
“At the time, I’d found it kinda badass how she just ignored everything he was saying and drove off, but I believe I see his perspective now.” Sparrow makes a noise that is somehow both a sob and a laugh. “There is nothing I can do, any time spent explaining things to me is time taken away from addressing what’s happening, and yet I still want to help.”
After they got back from Faerûn, the twins found themselves in the San Dimas ER significantly less. It turned out there was very little peril in their day to day lives that Henry didn’t have a spell for even at their most rambunctious. The class ring incident had been an exception, the problem was metal and not really causing physical harm to Sparrow beyond making his finger swell, so they had to find a professional with a jewelry saw, which Henry decidedly wasn't. Sparrow cites this as the reason he chose a stone band for his wedding ring, so just in case, it was made out of a material he could manipulate.
“Even so, I don’t think I could stand the sight of him right now. He’d be making the face.” Sparrow does a hauntingly good impression of the Henry face, and while Henry had very few expressions that Lark didn’t find to be some level of irritating, this one had a special place of honor in that it drove both of them crazy. It was the kicked puppy expression he would get when something had gone wrong and he couldn’t fix it or help. They’d seen it when they were sick. They’d seen it when Mom was dealing with the loss of BinBin. They’d seen it when the van was sucked back through the portal without them. They’d seen it when Grandma Autumn said she didn’t want to meet them. They’d seen it when his spell to bring Glenn back failed. And Lark had seen it almost constantly ever since. Whenever he lashed out, had to get picked up early from school, for weeks after the church…
So yes, this was a moment where Henry would definitely be making the face.
Sparrow sits down with minimal grace, doing his best to sprawl out, before almost immediately deciding against it and closing back in on himself, pulling his legs up onto the seat and wrapping his arms around them. Lark takes the chair next to him, resting his hand on the armrest, offering it if it’s wanted.
His brother’s breath is uneven, his gaze unfocused. Lark shifts so his hand is resting on Sparrow’s back, so focused on trying to find the most comforting location, that he’s completely caught off guard when Sparrow turns to him, eyes wide and brimming with tears, and in the softest voice asks, “Is it better this way?”
Lark tilts his head.
Hiding his face in his knees, Sparrow clarifies, “Is it better to lose him now, rather - rather than -” he tucks his hands up to wipe away tears. “This way he never has to find out what we did. He never has to hate us. I don’t have to see what this world is going to do to him. If we lose him now before we get the chance to really know him, is it easier?” Sparrow manages a deep shuddering breath. “None of that will ever happen.”
Lark pulls his chair around so it’s sitting directly in front of his brother and copies his position as best he can. He’s worked to stay limber, but Sparrow’s yoga routine left him the more flexible of the two. They sit, shin to shin, curled up into mirror images of each other, a position they had made a habit of in the tower of Ravenloft, the first time it had been essential to find a way to speak to each other quietly and not be overheard.
“Just last week, Rebecca was asking what type of extracurricular activities we were gonna sign him up for, how he was going to do in school, what kind of big sister Hero was going to be, and I was able to picture it. I could see him playing on the jungle gym down the street, I could see him getting on the school bus, I could see him hanging out with teammates after a game, and going off to college, and I thought it was just a mental exercise, but now I realize just how much I wanted that, how much I already believed that was something possible.” Sparrow clutches at the flannel of his own pajama pants he’d left the house in, and Lark realizes they’re wearing the same ones. A matching pair they’d gotten their last Christmas living with their parents. “Maybe it’s better to have all this ripped away now, rather than later.”
Lark doesn’t say anything. He can’t tell him that everything is going to be alright, because he can’t promise that. He doesn’t even know if Sparrow wants that.
“Why did I think I could know what his future would be like? I haven’t met him? And why was I so optimistic?” Sparrow throws his head back and looks up at the ceiling. “God, I’m so stupid.”
Reaching out, Lark wraps his arms around his brother, pulling them together as tightly as he can. Sparrow rests his forehead against his, tears falling freely down onto where their knees meet.
“Stupid, useless, can’t fucking do anything.” It’s so quiet that if they weren’t so close, Lark might not even have been able to hear it.
Lark wants to tell him that it’s okay that he can’t control the world, he doesn’t need to pretend like he does, but if Sparrow had wanted that sentiment expressed, he could have called anyone else. He focuses on the collar of Sparrow’s t-shirt and tries to bottle up the rising guilt for later. This shouldn’t be complicated, this world shouldn’t be one that his brother feels guilty bringing a kid into and it’s his fault that it is. He did this. But he knows that if he dwells on it now, the guilt will consume them both, and Sparrow’s already hurting. He’s not here to make things worse, he’s here to be what Sparrow needs.
He holds his brother as he sobs and continues with his mantra of self-hatred, until the tears peter out again. Lark picks up the ice water from next to their chairs and hands it over. Sparrow takes a deep sip. “Pregnancy is fucking weird,” he says, gently holding the cup with just the tips of his fingers. “I’m so used to being able to heal things, but it’s so different. Like pregnancy does all this wild stuff to a body, but it’s supposed to happen.” He takes another cautious sip. “I remember when she was pregnant with Hero, Bec’s morning sickness was just awful. I wanted to help, but I did some research and it turns out it’s related to some hormone that gets released and I wasn’t going to mess with that.” He freezes and Lark manages to snag the styrofoam cup as it falls out of Sparrow’s hands. “Is this my fault? Is it because I gave all the magic to Hero? No, that doesn’t make sense. Or does it? Does any of this make sense? Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
Lark goes to squeeze Sparrow’s hand, but flinches away when he feels the static charge of a forming spell, the energy there but without the intent to shape it.
“This is my fault and I can’t fix it. How do I know if my spell knows the baby is supposed to stay in there?” Distance starts to creep into his brother’s gaze. “I mean unless - unless it’s already -” his words are choked off by panicked breaths. Lark can feel him tense up and shifts away to give him more space only for Sparrow to reach out and grab him by the arm, anchoring him in place.
Being here is enough, Lark reminds himself, being here is enough.
He doesn’t know what advice his brother’s therapist had given him for panic attacks. The pair had very deliberately been set up with different psychologists after Faerûn, and they never really compared notes on their experiences. While a lot of Therapist Kevin’s advice hadn’t been able to scale up to Lark’s caused-the-apocalypse sized problems, there were some things that had been genuinely helpful, and one of those had been the panic attack advice. Kevin hadn’t ever suggested any calming activities, or recommended any focus on breathing, just told him the most important thing to remember was, no matter what it feels like, from a basic physiological perspective, the panic attack cannot go on forever. He could ride them out. Therapist Kevin said knowing they will end is often all that’s needed to prevent spiraling further out of control, but watching Sparrow feels like watching someone drowning, someone who doesn’t know they can just lay back and float.
With his eyes closed, Sparrow wraps both hands around Lark’s, planting his thumbs as firmly as he can while he’s shaking against the inside of Lark’s wrist.
Lark’s at a loss, Sparrow clearly wanting something, but he’s pressing his face into his knees, the only sound he’s managing is breath being sucked through where he’s biting down on his lip, his shuddering body reflecting the rise in his agitation.
It’s only when he hears Sparrow manage a looping whisper that he realizes what’s happening. With every exhale, the words, “Lark is here. Lark is alive,” repeat over and over.
This is familiar. This was started in the realms. This he knows how to deal with. Lark shifts, trying to maintain as much contact as possible while he moves to sit next to Sparrow, practically dragging his brother over the armrests of the chairs that separate them. He pries Sparrow’s hand from his wrist and places it over his heart, letting his brother feel the beat while doing his best to banish the memories of Oakvale, of Barry, of poison clouds. “I’m here. I’m alive,” he confirms.
Despite how uncomfortable it looks, he feels as his brother calms in his arms, his breathing evens, his tears stop, and he hears the gentlest snores as Sparrow’s exhaustion overtakes him.
In the moment of calm, Lark takes his phone out, snaps a picture of the two of them and sends it to thier mother with the caption: I’ve got him .
Sparrow is still sleeping when a nurse finally approaches them. Nudging his brother awake, they hear the news that they’ve stopped the bleeding and there’s still a fetal heartbeat, and Lark holds his brother as Sparrow breaks down into tears for the final time that night.